


West of the Moon

by Dista_Moana



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Bathing/Washing, Class Differences, Curses, Dubcon Cuddling, Dubious Science, Exhibitionism, F/M, Master/Servant, Masturbation, Odd Ice Elf Traditions, Sex Games, Uncut version, Voyeurism, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:50:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dista_Moana/pseuds/Dista_Moana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It appears that the bear is not the only prince in need of saving...<br/>Once upon a time, there was once a prince locked within the nightmare of his frozen heart, and a woman who lacked the courage to love a bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Act 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the fairy tale 'East of the Sun and West of the Moon.' But this is NOT for children and doesn't take the traditional format of the fairy tale. Just the bare bones really…. I would like to make note that Loki is not a nice guy only when he's unhinged, or feels emotionally threatened. Nearly this whole chapter deals with an unhinged Loki.
> 
> I'll add more warnings when I reach 'those' chapters. This story is not for the squeamish. There is a time jump, but the majority of the story begins in the now. As in Jane is still an Astrophysicists. The meat of the story takes place approx. 2011-2012. So Thor and Loki went on their hunting trip in the 1940's.
> 
> Master Loki-Slave Jane relationship.

 

West of the Moon

Prologue

A big blond mammoth of a prince and his younger, craftier brother were traveling the lands of Midgard in search of adventure...

On that day, Thor had chosen their target to be none other than Farbauti, the Snow Queen, an Ice Elf powerful in sorcery. Farbauti, along with her entire kingdom, had managed to slip away during the chaos of the Frost Wars. It is whispered throughout the Nine, that she had willingly sacrificed her mate to rot in his native lands, and she built a new empire in the colder regions of war torn Midgard.

The slender built of the two princes, named Loki, had warned his oafish brother thrice over not to risk the All-Fathers wrath in this foolish attempt at glory and fame. Typical as always, Thor had ignored his council, far too arrogant in the surety of his success. He had it in his head that if they hunted down a renowned war criminal, their father would recognize all the sooner that he was ready to take up the mantel of Asgards new king.

It was laughably easy for Loki to uncover the secret realm of the Ice Court, and just as simple to infiltrate the Crystal Palace. He was oddly curious about the simplicity for him, while other Aesir warriors could not find the general location of her domain.

Thor, blinded by the thrill of battle, cared not for his brother's quandary, nor did he care for the Frost Trolls that leapt to the defense of their monarch. Thor abandons Loki to deal with the trolls while he smashed his way through the gates of the Crystal Palace in search of his main target.

"Be weary of battling Sorcerers!" Loki warned his brother, ducking the path of a crystal blade, and twisting away from another.

Thor's overconfident laugh booms from farther in the chamber, "Some do battle, others just do tricks!"

Loki's agitated by Thor's callousness, but keeps the slight locked away in his heart.

 

* * *

 

What a trick the Snow Queen pulled that day, and what a terrible choice in toy. Although Thor wielded a mighty hammer, and was heir to the throne of Asgard; these facts did not dissuade the Ice Elf from playing her wicked games.

 

* * *

 

Sprinting through the newly renovated hallway, Loki skids to a halt near the entrance of the throne room. He spots a raven haired, blue skinned elf sitting regally upon her throne, enjoying the sound of Thor's screams. Too late to stop what transpires, Loki watches as the sorceress finishes the last stanza of her chant. If he were not predisposed with eliminating frost trolls at the gates, he could have had the chance to silence the Snow Queen before she had cast her spell.

Mjolnir slips from the Thunder Gods grip, and lands forgotten on the left side of the dais, the blond Aesir falls to his hands and knees, roaring his mistreatment in the form of a yearling bear. A polar bear. The Queen begins to explain to Thor of the rules to her twisted game.

"Since you are Aesir, your bear form will live longer than it normally should, perhaps seventy years, if you're lucky. Remember, only at night will you be Aesir. Do as you please with the mortal maiden. Bed her, woo her, but she must not see your face."

With a silent spell, Loki vanishes into the room, stealthily approaching the dais, the god of mischief flicks his wrist and summons his dagger in preparation for a strike. There is something about this woman that felt oddly familiar to him. It wasn't a magical connection, nor was it physical, it was more of a fragmented memory of cold and ice.

Farbauti's eyes snaps to the invisible figure and greets him fondly. "Welcome home my son."

Lashing out, she tugs away the layers of illusions.

Even the secret ones.

Shocked by the sudden removal of everything that is him; leaving in its place a nameless thing, Loki stares at his cerulean hands in silence. The magnitude of this revelation sinks in. Unable to believe the sight before him, yet knowing in his heart of hearts, that what he sees is truth; Loki desperately clings to the idea that this is the lie.

She is the liar.

This is all illusion.

He is born an Odinson.

Hissing in rage, Loki rushes up the stairs to slay her, the Snow Queen rises up from her seated position, points to Thor, "Kill me, and he remains a bear forever!"

Loki falters.

Stumbles.

Feeling shell-shocked, he lowers his dagger, stares at his brother.

Is he his brother?

Stares at his hand.

Is this really his hand?

For a moment, he feels detached.

Is he truly an Ice Elf?

But then, what are the markings along his skin?

Why is his teeth...

Anger wiped away, he's unsure of what to do, and then he remembers the lessons of the tutors on the histories of the Royal families throughout the nine... And who the Snow Queen had been mated to during the Frost Wars... The King of Jotunheim...A Frost Giant.

He's devastated.

Farbauti sneers, sensing his vulnerability. She transforms herself into a distraught mother, and cries out. "I should not have lost you from the fallout of war! The usurper dangles his war prize, his hostage prince, my baby, before the grieving eyes of mother and father! A threat to slay you if we continue fighting!" Her eyes shine with unshed tears. "Such a clever scheme, to hide your true heritage. Win your devotion by parading you around as one of their own, and Asgardian Prince."

The dagger of accusations against Odin hits him deeply. Always second best, never an acknowledgment of accomplishments well done, a frown at Loki's proficiency with sedir, a disapproving stare at surpassing Frigga's abilities at spell craft.

He is lost within memories; finding all the lies within the truths, warping simple acts of love into complex schemes of political power and control.

'It all makes sense now... All these years...'

Deeply content by her son's reaction to her words, the Snow Queen examines Loki's physique, the Jotun side of his heritage is obvious. Eyes a bright shade of claret, visible raised markings looping around his blue skin, and slightly tapered teeth. The hints of his ice elf bloodline is equally apparent. Gifted with magic, a thick mane of hair, tall and slender like all the males of his race, his ears are elongated, but stunted at the tip, appearing more Aesir in appearance.

'He should have perished long ago', she thinks to herself.

Alas, now that she is reunited with her son, she would rectify the errors of his perception of the world. Farbauti will force her child to accept all aspects of his nature. Both Ice Elf and Frost Giant. When the time is ripe, she will have her revenge on the All-Father; for taking something which was not his to take... even if that thing was abandoned to die.

The Snow Queen turns her attention back to the moaning bear. "Only the love a mortal will break this spell, and if any should look upon your face, you instantly return to me." She turns to smile at Loki, then looks back at the bear. "Enough time to teach my son all the things he was denied by your people."

Farbauti watches as the young polar bear trudges through the palace, disappears through the bloody vestibule, and out the front gates. Loki made as if to follow the bear, but the Snow Queen tugs his arm, holding him back. She could see the confusion, betrayal, and hatred he holds bubble to the surface. "Yes, reveal to me your true self. Allow your mother to show you where to properly direct those emotions."

Pulling away from her son, she walks down the dais to inspect the damage to her fortress, and says amiably, "We shall begin by finding you a proper slave or two before we-"

"What?"

The childlike sound of disbelief from him makes her seethed in disgust.

"Odin might have ban the acquisition of slaves in Asgard, but not here. You are the son of an Ice Elf! Respect your heritage and act like us, or so help me; I will send the arctic wolves to slay your brother while still a bear, and that will be the end of their support for you. Why don't you understand, you are nothing but a war prize for them - A bargaining chip to keep us at bay!"

Unwilling to hear any more of her poison, Loki determinedly sets out to track down his not-brother; wishing to confront the All-Father for the farce that is his life.

Farbauti yells at his retreating form, "If you think to leave the Kingdom, I promise you, I will consider it a breach in conduct and your brother will become my slave all the sooner! He will suffer for your transgression - They all will spite you before I'm through!"

Face devoid of emotion, red eyes flaring in temper, Loki rejects her completely in the only way he could. "You will never be known to me as family, nor as a mother."

Confidently, he turns back. Looks at her. "Heimdall will be aware of this eventually. The House of Odin will send its wrath upon you," he warns.

The Snow Queen laughs at his threat. "Have you ever wondered where your unique ability to vanish without detection derived from?" Raising a finger, she points to herself. "You have been lost from his sight the very moment you trespass into my Kingdom."

Loki's shoulders slouch as he continues his decent down the dais, his voice is flat when he says, "It appears you have a guest in need of a room..."

Though he flees her vices this day, he fears that eventually her poisonous nature would twist him into something he is not. Loki keeps faith that the All-Father and his mother Frigga will not forget their adopted son. That they would somehow discover the tampering of the Snow Queen and rectify the injustice set upon them.

 

Act 1

Scene 1

 

Blinding white snow covered the landscape in all directions, if a person was not used to the brightness, they would have suffered from blurry vision from the tears that would form and freeze in the corner of their eyes. Said person might even suffer the occasional freezing near the nose, ears, fingers, and toes. Now, if said person were human, and lacked all proper protection against the freezing elements, they'd obviously slip into the numbing comforts of death in less time than Loki could drop his pants and take a piss.

Every frozen mortal he ever discovered during his solitary stroll through the snowy wastelands were grizzled males, more ape like than man, it was strangely appalling that the sodomites usually died with silly grins slapped on their ugly faces. Such is the fate of all mortals who wandered too closely to the Queens Forest. Odd as they may appear, it never stopped him from looting their corpses.

If the neanderthals failed to die like respectable scum in temperatures well below zero, then they had the most unfortunate chance of being apprehended and gnawed to death by the frost trolls. Even the Trickster did not wish such a messy fate on his victims. It was not worth the time to clean up the blood and gore that get splattered on clothes during that brand of wanton slaughter, not to mention that before the trek back to the castle, all the nasty bits freezes like sheets of ice and makes it difficult to bend the joints. Then comes the itchy experience of thawing blood... Don't even get him started on the thawing.

On the topic of frost trolls and their habit of eating stray animals, Loki would never admit to cannibalizing a human. Just because he can do whatever the hel he wants, does not mean he'll do it for the sake of doing it. He'd first have to consider how ravenous he is on that particular day, and the possibility of not finding a meal elsewhere. Though, he would admit freely to inhaling the atomized blood of humans, through nose and mouth, as it sprays its way along face and body when he slices an artery just right. And since he's on this morbid spiral of thought, he ought not to deny the occasional licking of the iron rich substance from the tips of his fingers, or corners of his lips during tenebrous moments of detachment.

Such is the life of a prince confined.

Unable to venture into greener pastures until that imbecile Thor manages to use that neglected encephalon of his to wrangle a shrinking violet into his bed. It shouldn't be that difficult to woo a mortal maiden out of her chemise, make her fall madly in love, and end this nightmare. Loki is embarrassed for his not-brother's lack of success.

It has been over sixty years of waiting, of hoping, of repetitive motion, and Loki is still stuck here.

He is dangling on the brink of a maddening epiphany.

That glorious realization went something like a vocal rant he sometimes finds himself spewing during his venture through the woods. It deviates slightly from time to time, but usually has the same underline meaning.

"Still can't believe I honestly considered him my brother! I was so sure Thor's brain cells knew explicitly that they would be wasted on the blighted numbskull...waited around in mother's womb for the next lucky chap to come about, pun intended."

Feeling the frosty crispness of the air gathering in his lungs, Loki exhales and rants on, "Not like a big blaring clue wasn't staring through reflections everyday of your thousand years of living! Wake up and smell the Java! Black hair in a fair-haired family? Honestly thought mother had an affair..."

Yes indeed, important revelation about nothing. But no, that was just the part Loki complains about the most.

The Jotun prince came to the conclusion that his once-brother is not perfect, and that even the All-Father is fallible in the face of uncertainty. The most disheartening thing of all, which he is slowly coming to terms with, is that he has been abandoned by those he loved.

He can't handle rejection of that magnitude very well.

A sudden roar erupts from deep within the Crystal Palace. So loud, and fierce, and full of grief, that it could be none other than the long lost Aesir Prince. The only good news about that roar is that he is still a bear. Thor's repeated cries were just as ferocious as Loki remembers them to be; however, instead of mindless roaring of a beast, his yells have become distinctive in pitch.

Thor-bear was screaming a name.

With his roar of failure, Loki slowly lowers himself upon his knees.

Ignoring all stings of past hurts, he allows the inevitable to soak into his senses. Thor has failed. The false family will not retrieve them. The Snow Queen will be successful in her game of turning him into an other.

The Queen and her games disgusted him.

At first, the games Farbauti played to manipulate him was pathetically slight. But now, it affects everything he thought about.

In the beginning, it was simple to resist her.

Every two or three years – it used to be monthly – she would introduce him to a gift: handsome men, tantalizing women, strange hermaphrodites, beautiful other. She would take her time to tell Loki their life story, and then offer them to his services.

When he calmly refuses her gift, the Queen would say, "It is a present I give, if you do not wish to take it, dispose of them yourself."

And when she said to dispose of them, she meant kill.

Because of Thor, he was unable to slay the Snow Queen, so he took these twisted familial moments to lash out at her in a different way. Loki always refused the slaves, no matter how appealing, nor had he ever removed the illusion of his Aesir form. He knew it brought her blood to boiling whenever he openly denied one or the other.

Once, to spite him of his actions and to mock him of his pride, Farbauti had presented him a twelve year old boy and his nine year old sister. They were both chubby cheeked brunettes with bouncy ringlets for hair.

It was the first time his tear ducts malfunctioned.

Even though it was discovered that the children were actually goblins, it still took him well over a year to control the random breakdowns he suffered by the thought that he refused the protection of children. Even if it were a lie... it still darkens his thoughts in the twilight hours. He had to remind himself that the protection he wished to give them would have been mutated into something far more sordid than he cared to do to them.

Something shifted in him that day, and he knew it wasn't for the better. After being so thoroughly desensitized; whenever he was brought a newer, younger, prettier, toy, Loki shuts down. Kills automatically. A dispassionate mask to hide the heaviness in his heart and the confusion of his mind.

Blocking out those dark thoughts, Loki examines his surroundings.

Where was he again?

It was a beautiful day if you haven't lived here for sixty plus years, give or take a few. Forgive him if he doesn't quite remember how many cycles passed, he couldn't bring himself to bother. Well, more like too jaded to make the attempt. On such a disparaging day, he thought it ironic that the atmospheric setup wasn't dreary in the slightest. The sun shines in a cloudless sky, birds sing, rabbits scamper around mating everywhere, and deer pranced about without a care in the world.

Yes indeed. Just a normal day; except for the earth shattering roars echoing about.

When the time comes, Loki thinks he'll dig himself a cave and experience the life of a recluse; when the enslavement part of Thor's curse comes into being, the trickster wanted no part of that rotten bag of mixed crazy. But before that, he best form alliances and accumulate his own financial empire so he may live comfortable whilst in hiding.

Maybe even sabotage the monarchy while he's at it. Oh what a lovely idea.

Getting up from the cold grown, he pats himself off, makes his slow decent down the hill and into the Queens Forest. The crunching shift of packed snow beneath his boots is the only sound he hears besides the mournful wail of Thor-bear.

 

* * *

 

Eleven months fly by in a blink of an eye and Thor still spends half the day as a polar bear. Loki could not tolerate the sight of his not-brother. Just one glance sent the dark haired god into a fit of anger, leaving him bitterly disappointed in everyone and everything.

The things he knew about Thor's predicament were brief snippets of gossip through the grapevine. All the servants and nobles in the Snow Court enjoyed nothing better than to discuss about the Queen and her toys, and through them, he discovered that Farbauti took pleasure from torturing her victims to the fullest before reaping her rewards. Both physically and mentally.

It is public knowledge that the Queen has been spending most of her days riding around her kingdom in her polar bear drawn sleigh, and that she was fond of choosing Thor as the lead. At dusk, when he returns to his Aesir form, he is physically exhausted by the transformation, and spent most of his time deeply asleep. The strain of pulling a sleigh all day was beginning to affect Thor's health. And when the day comes when Thor remains himself as the sun breaks the horizon, Farbauti's real game begins.

During the night, the Queen handled Thor with modesty and decorum, allowing the Prince to rest without molestation. But no sooner has he become a bear, he would be lashed as the lead of her sleigh and her vicious cycle starts again.

What Loki didn't realize until just the other day, was that all the odds were in the queens favor.

The trickster had discovered from one of his many sources that Thor could not recall anything beyond the fact that he was cursed, that he knew his time was running out, yet believes that the spell would be broken by the mortal that he chose to court. This belief made Loki want to slit his not-brothers throat - End the suffering of the disillusioned fool. The only reason he hadn't killed him yet was because it wasn't any fun to murder someone suffering from magically induced amnesia.

Same old Thor. Tall, blond, perpetually stupid.

The only thing that was new about his older not-brother was the air of thoughtful consideration and new found empathy towards others. Truthfully, Loki is gobsmacked by it. Thor claimed that the mortal chosen to save him brought this about, and that she was both smart and beautiful. Thor humbly admits to anyone who would speak with him, that even though the mortal woman appeared much younger than he, her mental maturity was far greater.

Too bad he didn't pick an insipid girl.

The smart one failed Thor where it really mattered.

Failed him as well.

Since Thor's reappearance, Loki has been wandering closer towards the edge of insanity; he often caught himself peering into the depths of a dark void within his mind, and coming to terms with the possibility of succumbing to his darker heritage.

Just give up and let go…

These black moods have been plaguing him terribly, and the constant hedonistic parties the Ice Elves celebrated worsened his temperament.

Farbauti claims that these parties are based off a belief system, and that this predisposition to master and be mastered was part of the two fold nature of an Ice Elf. It was not just recreational, but also traditional. To willingly submit to heat, then turning around to smother the fire with a freezing embrace, was the ultimate enlightenment to an Ice Elf.

If Loki remembered correctly, it was something along the line of allowing the self to experience the difference in transition as a reminder of nature. Yeah, he didn't get it either and he was half Ice Elf.

There is always a celebration within the Snow Queens court. It reminds him of a denounced rendition of an Asgardian feast, and since he is the Crown Prince, he is obligated to attend for a few hours at every party. He greets guests by name, or tittle, compliments them on choice of pleasure slave, admits he still has no slaves at the palace for that particular reason, and cringe inwardly every time someone calls him the Frost Prince.

When all the pleasantries were dealt with, he disappears halfway through the festivities, and spend the rest of his time in his laboratory to tinker with a new potion, or try a spell on an unsuspecting slave. If it were a particularly humorous spell, he would use it to sabotage nobles he found most annoying.

But in the end, he is always thinking about the curse and his desire for revenge. It's never forgotten, even during his most mischievous adventures in the Winter Court.

When surpassing a particular point of vulnerability, he abandons his research. And the only thing left to distract him was his long walks in the Queens Forest, or reading Midgardian books. The mortals use of words were so odd at times. The way they create new variants of terms for the sake of it boggles the mind.

Tonight was one of those nights where he felt vulnerable.

Strapping a fur-trimmed cloak over his traditional leather outfit, Loki makes his way out of the Crystal Palace.

He neglects his armor.

A mixture of overconfidence and reckless abandon.

The temperature has fallen drastically, and he could sense a snow storm gathering. During this time of the year, it was typical for these storms to last for weeks, sometimes even longer. Loki trudges through the woods, losing himself in the winter void. A torrent of snow poured over his body and tugged him sideways. It was dangerously cold, to the point where he could see the friction of heat wafting from his body.

The noticeable tuft of vaporized air escaping his mouth made him smile.

He wandered in darkness for hours. Loki spots a trail of freshly disturbed snow, and follows the track to a large lump. Pulling his billowing cloak securely around himself, he cautiously approaches the mound. At first, the Trickster thought it was a tree branch, but the thing on the floor was too round to be a branch. A dead animal was his second guess. Wedging the tip of his leather boot under the lump, he flips it over in one fluid motion. It flops to the side like a dead fish.

The thing was thickly layered in tattered furs, leathers, and heavy quilting. The unfriendly elements wafted the horrid stench of the creature directly at him. Scrunching his face from the rancid smell, Loki shifts position. Facing away from the wind.

Crouching down with a hand over his nose, Loki examines the corpse. There was a threadbare sack lying next to the thing. Upending the bag, he identified clumps of rock-hard bread, and three thick objects bound in strips of cloth. Snatching up the wrapped items, he plops them besides him; they appeared to be books, he'll read them later.

The prince suspects the thing in the snow is another human male – recently dead by the smell of it. He shakes his head in disappointment. If he arrived an hour sooner, he could have toyed with it before it died.

Oh well, no use crying over spilt milk.

Wiping a smattering of snow from his face, Loki reaches down and pats the body in search of hidden pockets. He didn't notice the slow rise and fall of breath from the lump.

The ragged pile surges forward so suddenly, that Loki lets out a gasp of shock. Taking a step back, he watches as clumps of snow tumble off the hooded creature. The onslaught of turbulent wind hampers the beast's sluggish progression towards the Jotun.

Loki seethes at the fact that he was startled out of his wits, and forcefully shoves the mountain of rags into a snow drift. The thing had the gall to drag itself out of the deep crater it made in the snow. Determined to get to the trickster, it stretched out its arms. Blindly grasping at empty air.

A jolt of sedir sent the beast flying again.

Loki watches in twisted satisfaction as it crash-landed into the bushes behind it. Approaching his target, the creature's hood falls down, revealing a tangle bird's nest of greasy hair. Loki recoiled in disgust. The sight was incentive enough to exercise his pent up emotions.

Gnashing his teeth, Loki snags the man around the ankle, dragging him out of the shrubbery.

The human tries to sit up, but the god shoves it back into the snow. The force of his shove knocks the air out of his targets lungs. Pinning the thing with his knee, preventing it from crawling away; Loki summons a dagger into his hands, determined to punch a new hole in its face. The tangled mass of hair masking the creatures view, shifts up and down above its mouth as it gasps in pain. The sound of its inhalation causes the God of Mischief to pause his intent. The little pants of breath are soft and delicate.

Lowering his dagger, Loki carefully maneuvers the bladed tip beneath a dirty clump of hair near the upper half of its face, and slowly lifts the strand away. He is met by a pair of hauntingly brown eyes. They were glazed over and fever bright. Long butterfly lashes fluttered close against the onslaught of heavy snow. The skin below those eyes were darkly bruised.

Dragging the dagger under another clump of hair, he flips it to the side, revealing the entirety of the dirt smudged face. Delicately smoothed, asymmetrical features greets him. The most striking were the arch of brows, the small beauty mark beside an ashen cheek, pert nose, and cupid bow lips that were severely chapped and purplish.

His little toy is female.

Pulling away from her, Loki's eyes grow hard with determination. He will slay her where she lies and be done with it. Lifting his dagger to strike her, the mortal swivels about, and pushes away from his knee. The momentum propels him sideways, and a gust of wind pushes him backward. Loki slips on the slick ground and lands hard on his rear.

What just happened?

Loki blinks several times. Completely distracted from all dark tendencies.

The shivering female tugs her ice caked mittens off, and tosses the ruin garments aside. Mumbling incoherently to herself, she crawls between his legs. The tips of her fingers are bloodless talons. Darting out, she latches her claws into the leather straps of his sir coat, presses against him, and burrows into his warmth.

It felt like she was imitating a dirty, slimy, barnacle, attached to the underside of a boat.

Loosening his hold on the dagger, he watches as the weapon falls, and vanishes in a shower of green and gold sparks.

Loki tries not to find his predicament amusing.

He fails.

It was ridiculously amusing.

Seriously now, what just happened?

Reaching down, he wraps warm hands around cold pale wrists. It's surprising that his hands are warmer than her own - apparently she has been out in the snow for a long time. Tugging gently at her wrists, she tenses at the pull and whimpers disapprovingly, locks her fingers into another tier of leather straps, and presses the length of her arms against the sides of his torso. Even though she reeked to high heaven, the thing was persistently focused in its continued existence. He couldn't fault her on that.

Everything assumes it deserves to live.

"Do you have a name?" His question sounds standoffish.

Deeply lethargic, she pulls away slightly and blinks owlishly at him. The tip of one exposed ear is a shade of light blue.

He repeats his question.

She tries to answer him through the stutter of chattering teeth. "J-j-j-ja-jah-an-n-n-"

He hadn't the foggiest idea what she was pronouncing.

"Ah. Try not to hurt yourself over it." Loki tries to get her to stop talking by tapping the right side of her trembling chin. "Another time," he says.

Shutting her eyes, in desperate need of warmth, she presses into the crook of his right hand. Unsatisfied, she nuzzled his chest – not realizing that it was encased in cold black plating. When she notices the lack of heat, she sighs in despair and tucks her face against the underside of his arm. Snow clusters land gently in the tangle of her hair. And by the look of it, the elements will kill her in less than an hour. He should show mercy and kill her swiftly. The woman shifts her weight along the length of him as cold fingers travel up in search of a better heat source. Finding it in the area around his upper back, she claws at the leather, and hugs him tightly.

At that moment, he forgets everything. Forgets who he was, where he was, when this started, why he lives in a constant state of denial.

Forgets completely that he should end this.

"Damn."

It has been a very long time….

Holding his breath, he gathers the rank bundle, and carries it with him into the storm.

Half an hour slips by before they reach the main gate of the Crystal Palace.

His burden is fading quickly.

 


	2. Depravity: The Slip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the uncut version.

The Slip

Judging by the powerful storm raging about the Queens Forest, it would take a few months for the secret roads outside the barrier to be passable for humans. Until then, she'd be trapped here in this nightmare court. Lucky her. A few months would be manageable. Years were maddening. 

After cleaning her up, he'll leave her in the roost with all the other elderly servants. Those stationed in the kitchens were the least notable in the castle and were not over exposed to the prying eyes of Nobles. It seemed the safest option available for a young maiden to reside during recuperation. The kitchen Leads will assume she's new shipment, freshly picked from one of the villages, and hopefully no questions would be asked. 

Two foul breaths of air was all it took to sneak the mortal into the brightly lit hallways of the servants’ quarters. Masking their presence with sedir, the Prince impatiently waited by the kitchen doors as servants rushed in and out. During this time of night, when the festivities were in full swing, the stress level is high amongst the servants, making it all the easier for him to slip by. 

From time to time, a servant would stop in their tracks and sniff the air in disgust; Loki made a mental note to learn how to mask the scent of others. As soon as the traffic near the doors dwindled down, the invisible Prince slipped out into the brightly lit corridors. 

The greatest risk to him now was the possibility of being detected by the Ice Elves. Although elves lack the ability to identify the magical signature of others, they could easily see through both illusion and invisibility spells, and they also had a keen sense of smell. If the elves were too close they'd catch a good whiff of the garbage dump in his arms, and he'd have a lot of explaining to do; which he wouldn't because he's far superior to those slathering, overindulgent, half-wits.

By the time Loki reached the foot of stairs leading up to his royal suites, he was on his third lungful of air. The female's teeth clattered loudly and her violent shaking put her at risk of slipping out of his grasp. Try as she might to prevent further manhandling, Loki's strength far outweighed her own. Her coordination quickly deteriorated to the point of random muscle jerks and half-hearted flailing; it was a bad sign.

Taking the steps three at a time, the Jotun Prince juggles the mortal up and over his shoulder. Waving his hand in front of the locked double doors, they open on silent hinges and close just as quietly. Walking briskly through the parlor; Loki dared not to touch anything with his filthy hands. With the flick of a wrist over random objects, he vanishes them into a pocket of space, and enters his bathing chamber. 

The dampness of the room intensified the stench of her tattered furs. Unable to handle the smell, he did what any normal person would do when something offends their sensibility; get rid of it. He crouched down and gently leans his burden between the junctions of the wall. Dirty fingers flutter about his hands. Pressing his lips into a firm line, he swats them away.

Gathering up a good chunk of clothes, he ripped the layers apart like paper and flips the split fabric over her shoulders. Startled by the jarring sound of tearing, the female cried out an incoherent name and jerks away. The filthy creature stared at him in bewilderment.

Pausing a moment from his task, he considers her reaction and his instinctive response to it.

To Loki's perspective, she had just bounced for him. Unintentional as it may be, insignificant to anyone else, everything comes down to matters of opinion, and to him, what she did was fascinating. The vocalization of protest merely sweetened the visual stimuli. It was a good thing he considered her pale dirty face mildly passable to gaze upon, or he'd have to question the kinks to his perversions.

With an air of professionalism, he grabbed another handful of rags, only to be hampered by her trembling hands. Wide brown eyes infused with confusion gazed deeply into frost green. That dirt smudged mouth of hers was parted slightly, giving him a peek of tongue and the white tips of teeth.

"Honestly," he grumbles under his breath as he lowers his hands, this mortal was no fun at all. "No one here is so modest."

Averting his gaze away from the half frozen female, he stood up, and said indifferently, "Strip, bathe, warm yourself." Taking a backward step, he makes his way out of the bath house, calling over his shoulder, "If you faint I won't fish you out until you're dead."

"I-i-is... a dr-ream?" The faraway tone of her voice, was sluggish.

He slowly turns around, "Come again?"

"Yo-you-r n-n-n-no-t re-real." Lifting from her slouching position, she stands on trembling legs. "F-fi-f-fig-g-ment of... f-firs-s-s-t aid-d-d. D-d-delu-sion."

Taking a half step, she fumbles with the torn layers of her clothes, wiggling her arms up and down, the weighted garments slap wetly on the floor.

"I'm afraid..." an idea occurs to the trickster mid-speech, "I am... not real," he confirms.

Loki halts near the lip of the pool and positions his hands over the tepid water. Clawing at the air, he tugs upward. From the rippling surface of crystalline waters came vaporous heat rushing high in looping spirals, and slowly descends in white misty waves; enveloping the floor in a low-lying blanket of fog. 

Along the walls of the midnight blue room, glimmering strings of silver light begin to pulsate through the cracks. They darted about like lightning along the tile flooring, then spreads out across the rim of the pool. Curious eyes stare in awe at the display of sorcery, pleased by the sight, yet doubtful of the reality of it. 

"N-n-no suh-such th-thi-thin-n-gh as muh-mu-magi-g-g-c."

Grinning, Loki says, "Indeed, it is but a figment of your delusional mind."

Nodding her head, she turns her attention on the clothes that have yet to be removed. Pale fingers search up and down the middle of her rags. “B-b-bottons?” Fumbling to find the circular objects, she whispers. "v-vi-sh-sh-sion b-be-bef-f-for d-da-dah-dying?"

He nods his head in affirmation, finding it amusing that the creature tries so hard to communicate with him. At this rate, she'll never get to bathe. 

Turning away from him, a frown on her face, she lets out a little sigh of acceptance and gives up the search of nonexistent buttons. Slowly lowering herself back on the floor, she says, "J-ju-st g-go in n-n-now." Staggering toward the warm pool, trembling arms gave out and she collapsed - knocking the side of her jaw on the tile.

"What's your name?"

Oblivious to his inquiry, she rolls over, and grabs the hem of her coats to tug them up and over her head. Loki suppresses the sudden urge to laugh when she gets the garment stuck halfway over her eyes and nose. What made it even more hilarious, in the most pathetic of ways, was how her arms dangled awkwardly above her head like a limp puppet with its strings cut.

Yes, yes, he's a mean soul.

Figuring she was too far gone to berate him, Loki lets loose the chuckle he tried to suppress and a wide mirthful grin spreads across his face. Little Jane Doe's misfortune was too funny. Shifting towards her prone figure, he tugs at her soiled layers, freeing her from the jumbled mess of coats. Chunks of grit speckled her face and across the floor.

Wrinkling his nose at the sight, he says in disgust, "I swear, I just saw a waterfall of fleas migrating back to the motherland." 

Her confused expression made him laugh.

Unlacing the tops of her boots, Loki notices how the bottom half was securely tied with string and bound tightly with cloth. Ripping at the cloth, he tilts her foot up to get a better look at the underside. Socked toes peek out from ripped seams and the curve of her heel is visible through a sizable hole in the sole. The hole was obviously formed by excessive traveling.

It takes a great journey to ruin shoes so thoroughly.

Removing all footwear, he examines her toes. The nails were in need of a trim. Fortunately for her, there was no sign of frost bite, but her feet are noticeably swollen as is her ankles. Excess water accumulation no doubt.

Glancing down at her face, he took note of her unfocused stare.

"Can you hear me?"

No response.

Without giving it a second thought, he lifts the few remaining undershirts from her waist and methodically hooks his fingers through the layers of her pants; the skin there is cool to the touch. Bony hips jerk upward as he splits down the seam of one leg and then the other. The ruined pants are tossed into the growing pile of discarded garments.

Gripping her upper arms, Loki hulls her up and twirled her away from him. Holding her steady, he pressed her flush against the wall. Pushing oily hair over her left shoulder, slipping a hand into the collars of her underthings, he tears straight down the cloth to reveal the knobby bones of her spine. 

Flipping the garments over her shoulders, sliding it free from her arms, he scoops her up and deposits her into the misty bath water. The abrupt shift in temperature shocks her and she's gasping in short bursts. Small dirty breasts heaved heavily as the mortal hunched her shoulders, displaying the protrusion of her scapulas. Loki's eyes are drawn yet again to the prominent swells of vertebrae and lingers on the slight ridges of her rib cage.

Suddenly, overcome by the drastic transition of heat, Jane Doe slouches sideways, submerging completely into water. Quickly leaning over the pool, Loki fished out a visible chunk of ratty hair, and tugged her dead weight upright. This will not do. Loki drags her limp form towards the steps of the pool and positions her head sideways for easier air flow.

It is highly doubtful that she will ever recall what transpires this night.

Staring at the pile of filth on the floor, he waves his hand and it vanishes from sight. Quickly leaving the room, doors swing shut to keep the moisture confined as he enters his living quarters to deal with the rags. With the wave of a hand, flames erupt to life in an empty fire pit. He drops the rags into the blazing inferno and watches them burn away to ash.

With decisive purpose, the trickster turns back towards the bathing chamber. As he walks, his armor slowly dissolves in a glimmer of green and gold, and appeared in a jumble in his hands. Stripped bare, he tosses his clothes in a basket to be cleaned later. 

The double doors swing open and a heavy waft of warm mist dampens his skin. He spots the mortal amidst the steam, struggling to lift herself from the edge of the rim. Without hesitation, Loki descends the steps of the bath. The heated water is on the verge of uncomfortable. Submerging hip deep, he sits on the third step down. Long elegant hands are placed firmly against a tiny waist, and lifts the mortal into a kneeling position in front of him.

Her little mouth is slack, face bloodlessly pale, and her pupils are slightly dilated. No longer stuttering, the mortal whispered dreamily if he were the grim reaper. It's an improvement from the way she was before, and Loki thinks she'll survive this night. He looks into her glazed eyes, considers his options, and nods affirmatively.

Shifting closer, she sighs mournfully and grumbles out, "This is such an odd dream..."

As if in surrender, the female glides into his lap, tucks her face against the crook of his neck, and waits there for her life to end. Lifting her thin arms up the slope of his stiff figure, she drapes them around narrow shoulders. The tip of her nose nudges against the lobe of an ear and she whispers innocently against his pulse point, "But such a sweet one. It's too bad I couldn't..."

That breath of hers smelt horrible. 

Swishing his hand in the water to rid of the dirt, he summons a mint and slips it in her mouth. He's grinning in amusement as she instinctively chews and asks for more. Feeling generous, he feeds her two.

Her body temperature still remains a degree or two lower than his own. Loki could feel the coolness of her breasts and the nubs of her cold nipples press against his heated skin. The smell coming off of her was that of a Downer and the feel of her rear pressing into his thigh is bony and uncomfortable.

Summoning a pitcher, Loki dunked it in the water, lifts it high, and upends it over her head. The woman moves her face from his neck, presses her nose against his chest, and ventilates the water out of her clogged orifice.

Cringing at the feel of it, Loki is disgustedly amused. "You are the most audaciously, revolting creature..."

Disgust far outweighs amusement. And he shoved her off his lap to watch her sink under the water like a stone. Laughing rudely at the bubbles she's making, the dark haired trickster cups her under arms and positions the spluttering creature to sit one step lower than him. He holds her captive between his thighs, examining the way water streams in muddy rivulets down her back.

She doesn't even protest.

"Tilt your head."

With a flick of his wrist, a bottle plops into his free hand. Never imagining that he'd be using this old mixture, Loki wonders if its properties were still effective. Uncorking the bottle, pouring a liberal amount of the blue potion into her hair, he sets the vial aside for later use and messages the gelatinous substance into her scalp. Dark brown suds begin to form. Imagining all sorts of crawling insects living in her hair, Loki grimaces in disgust, if the potion should fail, several delousing attempts was eminent in her future. Lucky for him, he only finds twigs, moss, and clumps of dirt. 

Rinsing and scrubbing thrice over, the Prince considered if a fourth lather was necessary. Shaking the bottle and finding it empty, it's flicked over his shoulder and disappears from whence it came.

Glancing at the side of her face, wondering if she fell asleep; he noticed that her heavy-lidded eyes were still open, and she stares fixedly at the silver threads of light zigzagging the wall. Pale fingers run through her brown hair, patiently removing snags and tangled knots- wondering how far to take this.

The quiet sound of water lapping against skin was calming, and yet his mind races along the avenues of indecency. Summoning a dark beige sponge in one hand and a bar of soap in the other, he dips them in the water, intent on giving the mortal the scrub down of her life. He starts with her back, then her sides, shifts to her legs, over her feet, and between her toes. Soaping up the sponge a second time, he scrubs her rear and over her thighs. Frothy hands run up her calves, feeling the trail of wiry brown hair peppering her skin. When he scrubbed under her arms with the sponge, he felt hair there as well.

Draping her arms over each of his thighs, he dipped the sponge back into the water. The trickster loops his arms under hers, places the sponge against her breast bone, and leaned her back against his chest. Pressing his chin against the side of her temple for a better view of what he was doing, Loki begins to apply more lather to the sponge.

She whispers softly, "Is that a natural sea sponge?"

Not pausing in his ministration, he scrubbed at her collarbone, then over and under her left breast. "Yes," he says brusquely, stroking the sponge up her neck and the underside of her jaw.

"I thought they'd be a lot softer..."

"I thought you'd be softer," he teased. "This one's used for scrubbing grime from pots and pans," the Prince admits with a mean smile, while he rubs the sponge and soap bar across her protruding ribs and up each breast again. 

Judging by the feel of her, the mortal wasn't as skeletal as he previously thought – more like a ballerina’s physique than anything. A little more weight and she'd be just right. His hand dipped low on her belly and pauses there, cupping the swell. For a starved person, he wonders why her stomach was slightly distended; like her swollen feet, it must be linked to some form of malnutrition.

Tugging her around to face him fully, he examines the brownness of the suds trailing down her front. Loki warned her to hold still so that he could clean her dirty face. With a nod of her head, the mortal maiden lets out a yawn, closes her eyes, and did as she was told. The soapy sponge went up the bridge of her nose, along the arches of her eyebrows, her forehead, and down her cheeks. 

A stain on the right side of her face was proving difficult to remove, so much so that he was applying too much force, causing the Midgardian to wobble unsteadily and latch slick hands against his shoulders for balance. Wondering if she had sap stuck to her cheek, Loki holds her steady by the waist and runs his thumb over the stain. To his surprise, he discovers that it was another mole. Reaching out with both hands, he cups her face and rolls his thumbs across both beauty marks, feeling the rise of skin. 

As he rubs the back of her ears and tugged gently at her lobes, he thinks of the Courtesans and one of the positions required for them to take while they kneel before their masters. Biting the inside of his cheek, he grazes his hands down the slope of her arms and capture her wrists to slowly bring them high behind the back of her neck. Looking at the way her small soapy breasts were lifted high for a long moment, he reaches out with his free hand to tug and twist away the foam on her right nipple, and then he releases the hold and planted her hands on his shoulders again.

The entirety of the pose never did look appealing to him. 

To distract himself, Loki squeezes the foam from the sponge into his hands and smears the suds on her face. By the time he was done, it appeared as if she had a white fluffy beard and an overgrowth of eyebrow hair. Suds flutter about near her nostrils. A glob flies off by the air pressure of her breathing and smacks his belly. It was such an amusing sight that he couldn't help but laugh in boyish delight.

Fetching the pitcher, Loki tilts her head forward, orders her to hold her breath, and slowly pours water over her head. Spluttering the liquid from nose and mouth, her hair follows the flow of cascading liquid and shields her face from view. Reaching up, Loki splits the curtain of hair with his pinky and tucks half of it over her left shoulder. Her eyes are open, and she regards him with a sense of curiosity. 

Loki pauses; swiped his tongue over his mouth, and scrapes his teeth over each lip to remove excess saliva. Fascinated, the Prince lifts the rest of her hair away...

The sight of her- repressed darkness stirs. 

Lips pressed into a firm line, he acknowledges its existence, but is repulsed by it just the same. Not bothering to share his sordid thoughts with this sickly thing, Loki watches brown suds streaking down her belly... 

Marring her flesh.... 

Going farther down...

Into her navel...

Wrapping a hand around her tiny waist to steady her, he pressed his thumb gently into her belly button; pushing rhythmically slow, in and out, cleaning her there. Ice green eyes examines every inch of her face. 

Loki pulls the mortal close and with a forceful tone, he demands, "Open your mouth. Breath through your nose."

Frowning, she asks, "Why?"

Unwilling to explain himself, Loki clutches her jaw with one hand, and warns her not to bite down. Rinsing the hand that probed her navel, he slips a pointer finger in her mouth and runs the pad against her teeth. None were loose and all were present save for the wisdom teeth. She's trying to push away from the intrusion and he guiltily slides his finger out her cool mouth.

Unlatching her hold on him, Loki guides her back around and she leans up against his chest again. For an ill, malnourished, creature, the mortal was disturbingly...

Frothing up the sponge, Loki stoically nestles the coarse scrub between the junction of her thighs, and the mortal reflexively pressed her legs together.

"It'll hurt," she protests.

Her reaction to the pain, but lack of awareness to the wrongness of this moment signified that her cognitive functions were returning bit by bit.

It does not faze him in the slightest.

Summoning a smaller, softer sponge, he shows it to her. "Will this do?" Loki rasped. 

The maiden examines the smaller scrub as he pressed his mouth against the side of her neck, breathing deeply of her scent. It's an oddly shaped sponge with large spiraling holes, though the texture was far softer than the one currently in use. Plucking it from his grasp, she experimentally dips it in the water and squeezes, testing its buoyancy. She reaches for the bar of soap held firmly in place between his hand and her ribcage, and slowly begins to lather the sponge in order to clean herself.

'I should have washed her hair faster,' he thought petulantly.

Loki settles back, legs drifting farther apart. Swiping his damp hair away from his face, he watches as she cleans herself. The mist precipitates into dew and trickles down her pale skin. Licking his lips, he studies the way the water ripples around them, and how the white suds distort his view of the hand that shifts between her legs. 

A minute of this hypnotic display drifts by.

He drags the course sponge up her back, around the curve of her slim neck, down across her arm, and rests it upon the hand that was cleaning her thighs. Slowly, Loki guides it back to the center of her womanhood as his other hand slithers up along her waist to hold her against him. His hand begins to move beneath the surface of the water. Suddenly, the mortal wavers, breathes deeply, and says sluggishly, "You smell nice."

"Hnnn..."

Physically exhausted, the mortal slumps against him, removes her hand and spreads her legs a little wider as the coarser sponge continues to scrub her. She hisses and jerks her hips away, pressing up against his arousal.

He recalls her saying she didn't like the rough texture. 

Loki lets go of the sponge, snatched up the drifting soap, and lathers up his hands. Spreading her legs, he glides slick fingers down the slope of her swollen belly and cups her sex beneath the water. Scratching his fingers through wiry brown hair, he shifts his attention to her clitoris. In a false pretense of cleaning, he rolls the nub in between his fingers, then slipped between the folds of her labia to stroke her flesh, and he's enjoying every moment of this. 

His other hand played with her pink nipple, pinching and squeezing, rolling it about until they turned a rosier hue. And then he goes down to her backside to rub his fingers against her puckered flesh, pressing in ever so slightly. 

What he's doing to the human was despicable. He knows not her name. She's in desperate need for rest and sustenance; the lack of consent was an afterthought to him.

She moans, tilting her hips into his touch.

Loki shuts his eyes and grits his teeth as he feels his cock pulsate against the slick skin of her backside.

He hasn't felt this aroused in such a long time.

They stay that way for a long while as he fought down his urges. Thrumming with tension, berating himself for his actions, he knows he has more control than this. Removing his hands from temptation, breathing deeply of her damp hair, Loki promptly shuts her legs. When the pulsating desire subsides, he finally feels comfortable enough to move. 

Sighing, Loki repositions his acquisition and lifts her prone figure out of the heated water. The mortal's soaking wet, so he summons a towel and tucks it around her. Carrying her out of the bathing chamber, he made his way towards the heated foyer and gently lays her against the low cushions surrounding the fire pit. Gathering a handful of furs, Loki draped it over her prone figure. Squatting beside her, still shaking with want, he repositions her hair away from her face, rubs a thumb over her left beauty mark, and leaves her to sleep in peace. 

That night, Loki spends his waking hours considering his options, and whether he should keep her for his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, I did hint out in the first chapter that he was slipping, and this tittle is called 'The Slip' for that reason. He was not a gentleman at all in this chapter. Loki was just being curious at what all the hubbub was about and it escalated to all the wrong places.


	3. Act 1 Scene 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be explaining the Slaves Tier in the next chapter. If you guys have questions, ask away in a review or PM me and I'll give you an answer. One more thing...um...is anyone out there interested in being a beta for this story? If so, just drop me a PM. Thank you again guys.

Act 1

Scene 2

Leaping Tiers

On instinct, Gurda awakens before the dawn. The old cowbell latched on her leather collar dings loudly in her ears as she moves. Old and overweight, she fumbles around for a candle, bringing it to light. The cook takes pride that she is one of the Lead chefs of the Winter Court and that all lower rank slaves in her department– known as Downers - must obey her. The control she has over the Downers makes her feel as if she has power. Like one of the nobles.

The cramped quarters of the Leads personal stall is close to the heat of the cooking fires and held warmth that the other stalls lacked. Gurda's rheumatic bones appreciate the warmth and the comfort of her straw stuffed mattress. She does not want to leave her bed. With a loud burdensome grunt, she rolls her rotund form off the lumpy mat, picked up the stubby candle beside the night stand, and opens her rickety door.

Every day, she starts her morning in a cranky mood. Forcing herself to adjust to the semi-darkness, she stilled the cowbell around her neck from clanging and hobbles into the Downers sleeping roost to kick them awake to perform the morning prep.

Currently, there are five Downers stationed to her team; three males and two females. The females were still considered decent for _that_ sport and were used often. Sometimes Gurda finds herself pitying the women, but they never complained about the attention, and the annoying noises they made during the night in the roost hinted their enjoyment.

Lifting her leg to kick one of the slaves awake, she spots a tiny bundle hidden in the corner of the roost. It was wrapped head to toe in a thick green blanket. The Lead chef cursed the distributers of slaves and their inclination of dropping off recruits without warning. Lowering her leg, she approaches the bundle to inspect the new worker.

With heavy effort, Gurda bends down to lift the rich material away from the resting figure, she was surprised by the pleasant smell wafting from the Downer. Of autumn air mixed with cedar, and a hint of musk. Tilting the Downers face into the light of the candle, she finds a gaunt, pale, malnourished thing that should have been taken to the healing wards than being left here. Looking left and right, Gurda raised the blanket further away from the sleeping woman, revealing bare shoulders beneath the blanket.

Grumbling to herself, the old cook kicks the brunette awake - watching it bolt upright. Her green covering falls upon the straw, revealing an emancipated figure beneath the garment. If the lass were healthier she would have screamed from fright; instead, she lets out a shaky whisper of a cry that sounds a little too indecent for the ears.

"Get up girl. Yeah needs some food before yeah die and be no use ta me," Gurda said gruffly as she steers the slave into the kitchen. The Lead tightens the green fabric around the slave's thin shoulders and sat her down on a wooden stool beside a set of low burning stoves. It is dark in the kitchens; the only light source is the glowing embers in the stoves and the candle flickering in Gurda's hand.

Wandering off towards the uniform cupboards in search of decent clothes for the slave, Gurda realizes the potential in the lass for leaping the tier. Returning to her charge, the cook tosses an oversized tunic over the maiden's head and pulls out her arms through the sleeves.

Limping towards a small pot hanging over the embers, Gurda identifies the contents as day old lentil soup with kale and sausage. It was one of the meals that had not been touched the night before. Pulling down a hanging ladle, she stirred the soup, pours a healthy bowlful, and orders the slave to eat it.

Frowning, Gurda watched the way the lass struggled to eat without the use of a spoon, all dainty like and innocent in expression, yet still greedy enough for every morsel. Without a doubt, when the youngling regained full health…

"Most too shallow ta see yeah now… yer too pleasing a face for the kitchens."

Making a decision, the old woman scooped soot into her hands, grabbed the slaves chin, and smears the grime onto her face.

' _Them beauty marks needs ta be blocked from view.'_

Confusion is evident in the slaves brown eyes, but she remains silent as Gurda covers her long brown hair with a stained handkerchief. "What be yer name?"

The slave takes her time to chew her meal before swallowing. "My name is Jane… Jane Foster."

"Well Jane Foster, yeah gots lots of learning ta do. But taday I wants yeah ta watch the fires, eat yer lentils, drink this here water, keep that face down, and shut yer mouth."

* * *

Jane wished she had more commonsense and came up with a fake name...

Try as she might, she doesn't remember what happened when she first woke up. All she recalls was slurping down a bowl of water and helping herself to a second helping of soup. When Gurda had asked for her name, she didn't think it important enough to lie, and besides that, she would have probably made up a ridiculous name... Like Nova Starshine. Cool and unique as it may be, it was obviously a pseudonym.

Frowning, Jane runs her fingers over a thick brown leather collar attached to her neck, hooking a finger under the strap to scratch at an itch. She hated the feel of the leather against her skin. Gurda told her the collar was required for all the slaves to wear during their servitude and that the collars were only removed during changes of rank, or when a slave dies. Still, she couldn't help but complain about the chaffing, not to mention the annoying sound it made. The old lady reassures her that it wouldn't matter in a few months.

"Why is that?" Jane asked.

"Yer gonna get used ta it is all!" Gurda snapped, irritated by her curiosity.

And that was the end of that complaint.

During the morning prep, the Lead chef is constantly yelling at everybody and everything; sometimes even at herself. Under her watchful eye, the slaves worked diligently. When Gurda told someone to move faster they moved faster, if a slave should nod off while standing, she'd bop them awake with a smack to the back of the head, and when break time came about, the chef made sure they ate healthy and never allowed anyone to skimp on their meals.

As the morning meals transitioned into noon day feasts, Gurda introduced Jane to Guerin, the afternoon chef. He was over seventy years old – around Gurda's age – and just as cantankerous.

When first they met, he eyed her down and turned to Gurda in disbelief. "They be stupid…"

Gurda just chuckles, making Jane feel uncomfortable.

The pair gave her light chores and never left her alone, even while bathing. To this day, she is terribly embarrassed to bathe in front of the older couple. The third time they made her strip for a bath, Jane specifically requested that if someone had to be present that it only be Gurda. She didn't like the sordid leer Guerin gave her when he thought she wasn't looking.

At night, Jane slept on a pile of straw in Gurda's enclosed stall. She is repeatedly warned by the older woman to never linger near the slave roost, and with all the noises going on there at night, Jane took the warning to heart. The only complaint about the sleeping arrangement is Gurda's terrible gas fogging the room, and whenever the nauseous smell disturbs her rest, she often found herself lying next to the crack of the door, spending sleepless hours trying to remember anything on the night of her arrival.

Forcing herself to invoke any semblance of memory had only confused her with imagined assumptions of what seemed to be scattered bits of dreams. Searching for someone, being lost in a storm, acting like an animal and borrowing into the snowdrift to die quietly: all alone. And then, from out of the blue, a man's reassuring voice echoes in her mind. It must have been one hell of a hallucination because whenever the voice in her head becomes crystal clear, her body would heat up and made her feel uncomfortable in her own skin.

He had told her calmly, soothingly, that he were death, and that he had come to take her away. At the time, she had believed him, thinking it too irresistible not to. It was so much easier to just accept it and surrender; this whole situation was too much for her anyway. Guilty and angry at her own actions, Jane tells herself never to take the cowardly way out again.

Jane sometimes envisions mist, and being engulfed in warmth. Which left her pondering about who had found her, what happened to her bundle of clothes, and whether or not she had to risk sneaking back out into that snowy wasteland for her bag. Still too weak and unaware to attempt such a feat, she remains in the care of the two Lead cooks and was determined not to be a burden.

During her recuperation, she learned that cleanliness is key as a cook's assistant. This confused her at times because the chefs tell her to stain her face with dirt and soot. The second thing about her role as an aid is prep work. She's all cool with prep work. It's the last requirement she fails at. And that was the ability to cook. Jane has never been a proficient cook. Her gourmet skills consists of: microwaving, toasting, and reheating instant meals over the stove. Sometimes reheating meals turn out bad – and she knew better than to make anything from scratch.

Once they discovered Jane's lack of know-how, each Lead took the time to teach her how to make a variety of meat dishes. They explained that only a handful of nobles ate meat and if she ruined them, she could always eat her mistakes.

* * *

Two weeks later, Jane is happy to note that she feels healthier, more energized, and her skin tone was regaining pigment. Gurda deemed her healthy enough to change her regime to include fetching water and going out to harvest in the orchards with Guerin.

Since her arrival, Jane has never stepped foot outside of the kitchen quarters, nor has she seen anyone besides the cooking teams. To have the opportunity of going outside to stretch her legs and look at something besides cutlery was a happy occasion to look forward to; though, she thought it rather strange that they spoke of summer in a kingdom covered yearly in snow. Perhaps they were going to be led to a green house? That sounds plausible enough.

For the special occasion where the slaves were taken out into public viewing, they were made to wear a simple yet cleanly stylized brown uniform. When it came to Jane, Guerin refused her to wear the standard outfit. Instead, he gave her a potato sack of a dress to put over her tattered tunic. Guerin told her flatly that she'd attract too much unwanted attention. He was so paranoid about it, that he worsened her appearance by adding an extra coat of mud over her daily application of soot.

Jane grumbled silently under her breath as the other slaves laughed at her appearance. Before they left the kitchens, they each took a wicker basket made of pliant strips of bark and a pair of thick gloves. They gathered up in a single line and followed the Lead down the Slaves Hall. Taking a left, the group came upon a squat wooden door. Guerin opened it and they quietly marched outside. The annoyance she had been stewing because of the old man's mistreatment was quickly forgotten upon entering the area known as the Endless Summer.

Rolling green hills and golden wheat fields stretched out in all directions, winding cobble roads dissected through areas of farmland and between majestically crafted buildings. Monumental archways that looked to be apartment complexes were spread underneath the length of bridges crisscrossing along the width of a large river. Behind an island pavilion that floated in the middle of a crystalline lake, stood a white tree that shimmered brightly in the noon day sun. Scattered all around the tree were flowering bushes all in bloom. In the opposite end, nearest to her, stood the fruit baring orchards and vegetable garden beside it. Straight down the road were pointed shapes of cluttered rooftops where smoke billowed profusely.

The contrast between what she had seen throughout her travels to the Snow Court, and what she saw before her now, was awe-inspiring - not to mention terribly daunting. It was so unbelievable that it made her want to analyze the anomaly and-

Scattered conversations echoed in her mind.

" _No such thing as magic."_

" _Please find him, Jane Foster."_

It was an unpleasant wakeup call of why she's here: find that man, fix the mistakes, help break the spell, stop this madness. Only then would she allow herself to unravel the scientific aspects of the situation.

If only she had her electromagnetic processor…

Sequestering her nerdy tendencies, Jane hefted up her gathering basket close to her chest and immerses herself in the feel of warm sunshine. The rich smells of ripe fruit and the beautiful scenery brings her to smile.

* * *

Harvesting was Jane's favorite chore, though it only took place once every three days. During the third outing to the orchard was the first she saw of the higher members to this society. They looked like humans, but there were distinct differences that screamed alien. The shade of their eyes were pale, and their ears were elongated and sharp. Their skin tone ranged from milky white to a deep shade of blue. All of them were lean and tall, none shorter than five nine. Each and every one of them were meticulously dressed in multilayered clothing. She swears that the stitching on their clothes were so detailed that human hands could never replicate it without the assistance of machines.

 _'Are there machines here?'_ That thought excited Jane just as much as the aliens.

Every time Guerin caught Jane discreetly glancing at the Nobles, he would scold her for her wandering eyes and escort her back to the kitchens. His shadiness angered her, but she kept her dislike of him under wraps.

Whenever the chefs' weren't hovering over her like mother hens, Jane would question the Downers about the strange race. They gladly whispered to her bits and pieces about those who live on the upper crust of the kingdom, and she quickly discovered that these Elves were supposedly the masters of all, that benevolence and cruelty was their sport of choice, and that it was the secret core to their society.

It was the biggest load of bullshit she ever heard.

* * *

The fifth outing to harvest brought Jane's world to a slow crawl.

What she saw stumps her for a moment. It felt like a curtain in her memory is flung wide, allowing her a glimpse of a man standing by the entrance of a misty doorway, a look of playful curiosity in his eyes. What color were his eyes? Her mouth falls open in amazement when the man who haunts her dreams departed from a group of Ice Elves. He was making his way across a bridge, heading towards the Floating Pavilion. This man lied to her, he wasn't a shadow dream! He helped sneak her in and… she couldn't remember the rest.

_'There's still a chance…'_

The large cowbell dinged repeatedly against her collar. Stifling the sound with her hand, Jane slips away from the rest of the gatherers as a mixture of rage and confusion swells up in her. Blinded by frustration about how this all started, how this – he – could be real, she's rushing up the stone walkway and crossing over a white bridge.

He played her for a fool that night when she thought she was good as dead. A grim reaper? Seriously? She felt like the biggest idiot ever in existence. It stung Jane deeper than she thought it would – much more than when her peers called her ideas of an Einstein Rosen Bridge a foolish fancy.

Catching wind of the sudden presence behind him, the noble stopped, turned around, and was greeted by a stinging slap. To Jane's fury, the slap doesn't bother him in the least - though he did look mildly surprised - the spark of recognition in his eyes sours her mood.

His voice is smooth, far more haunting than her dreams. "You're faring well," he whispered in friendly greeting.

Tongue tied, she suffers to come up with a snappy response, and blurts out, "That's for lying to me!" As soon as the accusation leaves her mouth, Jane wished to snatch everything back; including the slap.

 _'Why do I do this to myself?'_ She whines internally, shaking from frustration.

The elf is devoid of expression as he glances around for potential eavesdroppers, finding none to interrupt them, he asks, "Just to clarify, what precisely did I lie to you about?"

Glaring at him, Jane spits out, "Telling me you were a dream, that I was dying!"

A secretive smile stretches his lips, the glimmer in his eyes darken.

It deepens her distrust.

"Is that all which upsets you?" He asked.

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, she responds with another question, "Is there more I should know about?"

"Ah. That I won't say," he counters snidely. "I see that you've reverted to your dirty self again. Tell me, are all mortals filthy? Or is it you specifically?"

Offended, Jane yells at him, "You want me to slap you again, don't you?"

"If it pleases you."

They stare at each other for a long breadth of time, Jane with annoyance and he with smug amusement.

Adorn in nothing but a knee length sack bound tightly with twine, she feels awkward in the company of this well dressed noble. Legs unshaven, face marred with dirt, hair tucked into a ragged kerchief, she is highly aware of the difference in their status.

He could hurt her for what she did, yet he remains passive as he examines her appearance. Pale eyes linger a second too long at her curly leg hair; her face heats up in shame. She hadn't shaved in months.

Suddenly, she's highly aware of him.

The man was tall and pale, like the rest of the ice elves. He had a prominent nose, a wide mouth, and intelligent light green eyes. His raven hair was currently slicked back from his face, falling loosely to curl along his shoulders, and he had a starved look to him that made her think he'd be needing a snack right about now.

Until this moment, Jane failed to realize just how much he towers over her, and she thinks this unplanned confrontation was going to take her into the brink of a panic attack.

Thinking back on an old trick her father had taught her; she tries to find a flaw in this man to make him look less threatening. It worked when she was five years old and terrified of the monster in her closet. When she used the trick, she decided that her monster had kitty ears, and it eventually ended up becoming too cute to be frightening. Dubbing the monster Mr. CuddleWhisker, he became her imaginary guardian who prevented the monster under the bed from eating her.

It was a mean thing to do, but if it helped maintain courage in the face of opposition, then it was worth the cruelty.

Positioning the basket between them like a shield, Jane steps backward to study his features, and she finds what she was looking for. His mouth was thin like a frogs and his forehead was wide like a light bulb, she could never take this man seriously now - well, at least for the moment.

Feeling the false bravado overriding her timidity, Jane tightens her grip on the basket, squares her shoulders and demands, "Why. Did. You. Lie?"

Tilting his head slightly, he stared at her as if she were a dolt, "I deem it unnecessary to answer that quandary."

"Because?" She persists, taking a step forward.

Thin lips slanting down, he returns to their question game. "Why were you wandering about at night? With no weapons to speak of, all alone, half buried in snow?"

"I was looking for someone," she says evasively, losing her confidence, shifting her eyes away from his.

"Have you found that someone?" He asked, matching her forward step with one of his own.

Startled by his nearness, she hunches her shoulders, blurts without thinking, "No, I-" She could feel her blush worsening by her lack of cunning.

"Who are you searching for?"

Whatever this is, it had to stop. This Noble was pulling out confidential information that needed to be left alone.

Too stubborn to steer the topic away from his duplicity, Jane snaps back, "It's not important! Why not answer some of my questions for once?"

"FOSTER!" Guerin bellows, a hint of worry in his voice.

Jumping slightly, Jane is agitated by the sound of the chef's voice. Reminding herself of the real reason she instigated this mess, she turns her attention back to the male Ice Elf.

There's a minuet shift in the way he regards her.

That starved look of his was creeping her out.

 _'The curse.'_ She reminds herself.

Ignoring the call and the Ice Elf's odd behavior, Jane glares at him in determination. "Please, I need to know where my-"

"JANE! Ye be needin' a lashin' if ye ain't here on the count o ten!"

Nervously worrying at her bottom lip, she turns to look for Guerin. In the fields stood the teams of harvesters, but Guerin was not with them. The Lead was zigzagging between the fruit trees in search of his missing worker. In his hand was a large swish, and he's smacking the end of it against the open palm of his free hand. Jane's eyes widen in shock; Guerin has never threatened to beat her before, and she wasn't keen on giving incentive for him to start now.

"This conversation isn't over," Jane murmured under her breath as she abandons her interrogation attempt to return to the fields.

Green eyes follow her until she's no longer visible.

Loki smiles and then scoffed at the irony of Jane Doe's name.

* * *

Meeting up with the group and receiving a considerable amount of scolding from Guerin, Jane returns to work; secretly glad that the Lead didn't hit her with the stick. Ten minutes into harvesting, Guerin made his way through the trees and ambles towards his new underling.

"Did ye catch the eye of that young buck?" The Lead asked offhandedly.

Tugging a loose strand of hair back into her kerchief, Jane shrugs, "No one ever looks at me." Remembering the assessing stare from the tall elf, she pauses in her work in a moment of uncertainty.

Turning to the Lead, she says, "I'm human," dread enters her voice, "They wouldn't..."

Refusing the thought, Jane makes her way under an easily assessable tree bowing heavily with the weight of sweet smelling nectarines, twisting the ripe fruits from the tree, Jane places them gently into her basket. "Anyway, I don't fit their description of...'that' sort of person."

Guerin blinks at her, keeping quiet as they continue working.

* * *

After that interesting fiasco, the life of a Downer becomes simplistically boring again.

Jane often found herself attempting to exercise her mind by reconciling particle data that she remembers predominantly from the last time she attempted the feat. Sometimes she considers jotting down the gravitational interaction and collision between earth and the Snow Queens pocket dimension. When she thinks along the avenues of spatial-temporal reasoning, this space would not be the complex manipulations of timestreems, but an atmospheric disturbance of an unprecedented scale.

When she impulsively picks up a chunk of coal and starts scribbling equations on the walls, she forces herself to stop before someone accuses her of graffiting up the place. Oh, but it was a tempting thought... Alas, instead of number crunching, she ponders on the detrimental aspects of her mission.

Biding her time, Jane spends the weeks mentally analyzing and preparing herself for the day she felt physically capable of risking another outing in the Queens Forest. Hoping her bag was still out there underneath piles of snow, she settles on the date of her attempted search. It will be on the night that both Leads had the day off. The chefs were heavy drinkers, and often overindulged on their day of rest; passing out early in the evenings and waking late the next day. It would give her ample time to slip away without getting caught.

On the night before her sneak attempt, as Jane settles down to sleep, she finds it funny how it was no longer uncomfortable to lay on top her straw pile. Heck, her rear no longer hurt anymore while sitting on wooden stools. Apparently the added cushioning of weight gain helped in a lot of things... amazing what a few pounds could do for you.

Exhausted, yet excited with anticipation, Jane mentally sings Tom Lehrer's 'The Elements' until she falls asleep.

* * *

Waking up the next day, fully refreshed, Jane unwraps herself from the green blanket, folds it, and tucks it on Gurda's shelf for later use. She tries to open the stall door, but to her surprise, she finds it locked. Wiggling the wooden handle experimentally, she overhears the voices of the two Leads. Suspicious, she squats down next to the door, presses her ear next to the gap and listens to the hushed conversation.

"Looked real sick like when they first brought it in, but I got an eye for these things. I knows a little fattening and sunshine'll make it all pretty like for the likes of yeah Uppers.

A deep, feminine voice asks, "How long has it been here?"

"Been 'bout two months an a half," Guerin replied and proudly states, "Kept it away from the riffraff we did. Ain't no easy thin' ta do, mark my words. The thin' would o been ruin by now if we didn't protect it. Hel, if I were a few years younger and my spunk still worked, I woulda-"

There was a loud whack and cursing.

"Shut that hole yeah pig!"

"Pardon my sayin'," Guerin mumbled unapologetically – Jane knew that the chef was a pervert, but she had always tried to see the good in him... now she knew to stick with gut instinct.

"Any talents I should know about?"

"Taught it how ta cook. Kinda seems ta have a thing for words and numbers. I sees it scribbling on the wall with coal when it thinks no one's looking."

"Name?"

"Jane Foster," was the concurrent response.

Kneeling by the foot of the door, shaking her head in denial. Her heart plummets into her stomach. Jane murmurs repeatedly, "This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening."

"Let's get this done with."

Numbness sets in as the stall door unlocks and slowly swings outward, allowing the morning light to brighten the room. Jane is greeted by the sight of a clean, plain faced human in her late fifties. The stranger is tall, with blonde hair tightly bound to the back of her head. She had the look of someone who couldn't be bothered by the nonsense their superiors put her through on a daily basis.

One look at Jane made the woman scrunch her face in disapproval. "Please tell me there's another in here besides this... thing?"

In a panic, Gurda hobbles into the stall, whips out a dish cloth from her apron and says, "A disguise!" Spitting on the rag, the old Lead approached the retreating underling, snags Jane's tunic, and wipes away the soot. "Ta hide her face from the laddies."

A scuffle takes place between slave and chef. Jane wanted none of that spit anywhere near her face.

"Stop," the Upper demands. "You need not bother, both will be rewarded for the find. Will it be the same as before?"

' _BEFORE?'_

Guerin rubbed his hands eagerly, "Four casks of honey-crisp ale an' three days rest."

"Done," said the blonde as she steps out of the stall. "Follow me Tyro."

The twist of betrayal Jane feels for the older couple made everything worse.

She hates them.

Gurda caught the expression on Jane's face and hollers, "Be gone! Yer more trouble than yer worth!"

Jane wondered if this is punishment for what she could not do for Thor.

' _How am I supposed to do this? For goodness sakes ...It could have been so easy!…But then...Why am I so sensitive about these things? What the heck did I get myself into?'_

Guilt takes over her, and Jane accepts the emotion she feels from the fallout caused by her failure.

' _This is all my fault...'_

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the read and review. They will be greatly appreciated.


	4. Act 1 Scene 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slave Tier
> 
> ??  
> Courtesan  
> Tyro  
> Crafter  
> Upper  
> Lead  
> Downer  
> Lead Brunt  
> Dreg

Act 1  
Scene 3  
Tyro of the Third Order

* * *

 

They pass under archways, hallways, and antechambers made from milky crystal quartz. Jane was too shocked at the sudden change of her situation to take much notice of her surroundings. The only thing that caught her attention now was the Upper's collar which let out a playful chime with every step she took. This woman’s bell was drastically different in appearance than the cowbell she wore. Hers was not shaped like a thin box, nor did it resemble a hollow cup, it was a small circular thing made of silver and resembled a bell attached to a cat’s collar.

The Upper's orders are patiently spoken, and the way she talked was smooth, sweet and lazy, almost as if she had practiced this sultry manner of speaking into an art form.

“Turn left here, dear.”

“Take the stairs up.”

“Turn right.”

“Stop.”

Jane was led into a heavily perfumed chamber tiled light blue from floor to ceiling, the circular room was disturbingly romantic. There were carvings of sea flowers and corals entangled in loopy designs of seaweed all along the lower and upper walls. Near the center of the chamber, positioned in circular double rows, stood a dozen freestanding tubs made from gigantic tellin shells. Upon closer inspection, the tubs appeared basin-like, varying in color from bleach white, rose petal pink, butter yellow, and deep purple. Jane was led to a white shell.

The Upper tugged a powder blue pulley that dangled low beside the bathing station. A clicking sound was heard from the middle of the base as heated water funnels through small discuses infused along the inner ridge of the basin, it took no longer than a minute for the shell to fill halfway.

“All little pearls of the third tier must be cleansed before being handled by the Crafters,” the Upper says calmly. The confused look from the brunette made the blonde roll her eyes. “Remove your rags and wash yourself.”

Crossing over to a small stand adjacent to the shell, the Upper picked up a flat bronze tray with an assortment of bathing products. Springing a catch beneath the tray, she latches it along the rim of the shell. Turning back to her charge, she tuts at Jane in disappointment. “You have not done as I ordered?”

Jane gazes at the items on the tray. “Why are you doing this? I never asked for the transfer.”

“You wish to return to your lower status while others fight tooth and nail for the opportunity?” The disbelieving lilt in the older woman’s voice was patronizing, but also held acceptance.

It would be no sweat off the Upper’s back, if Jane were to return to the kitchens.

Technically, she was chosen on a whim, and could easily be replaced. And then where would she be? Back working with that pervert Guerin? If she returned to the kitchens, they'd probably be angry for the loss of their reward, and she would no longer be protected. Jane wasn't stupid, she knows what would happen if she went back.

She was desperate to blend into their society, but how successful could she be in that if her actions weren’t considered normal? If people were eager for the chance to be in the position she was in, shouldn't she feel the complete opposite of dread?

“Yes – NO!…no… I just, I'd like to know what’s going on...” Without thinking, Jane blurted one of her main concerns. “Are all humans slaves?”

The Upper laughed. “Oh heavens no!” Smiling at the ignorance of the shorter woman, “You must be one of those outsiders from 'that' tavern…” The blank face of incomprehension spurred the blonde to thinking her assumption were true; her smile widens. “I will explain while you bathe.”

Already used to Gurda's supervision, Jane considers the room as an indication that communal baths were normal in this culture. Nodding in grim acceptance, she removes her ratty clothes, dumps them in a bin and climbs into the shell. It's been a long time since she had the opportunity to soak in a hot bath.

When she settled, Jane turns to the older woman. “If there’s no slavery, then why did the kitchen Leads call us slaves? Why wear these collars?” She asked, tugging irritably at her own, scratching the aggravated skin underneath.

“The Leads, like most of us, could be considered traditionalists. They are rooted to the teachings of the old ways, which is what they grew up to believe. It is true that our positions was considered the Slaves Tier, and until recently, I too was a slave. This freedom is still too new for some of the older generations to fully embrace – but it matters not what they think. You have come to us in a time of great change, Jane Foster.”

“When did they end slavery?” Jane enquired.

Reaching for the golden dipper, the Upper shoved the handle end in front of Jane.

“It came about a year ago...so strange how it happened. You see, the slave debates have been going on for a thousand years. It has always been a topic of discourse amongst the Nobles. Most of the council members had too much in stock on the slave trade and wouldn’t budge an inch to abolish the law; however, they finally negotiated policies that were beneficial to all members on the matter. It was settled so unexpectedly, that rumors had claimed that the council only managed to pass the law because of the Snow Prince's influence.”

A wide smile of admiration spread upon the Upper’s glossy lips, lessening her severity, making her appear ten years younger. The blonde seemed to be smitten with just the thought of this Prince. Jane tried very hard not to show an ounce of recognition at that tittle, nor its link with Thor.

The Upper continues speaking. “Most of the slaves willingly remain in their position, since it's all they know. It's the new generation who are making the most of their freedom, and believe me they do. All of us are now required to sign contracts into various fields of tier interests. The higher you are on the tier, the more you make.”

Pausing mid-splash, Jane refrains from asking about the suppose money she was accumulating. Considering how she never signed a contract, it'll probably look suspicious if she brought it up. Lowering the golden dipper into the brownish water, running her fingers along the arranged objects on the tray, she asked another question she was curious about. “What levels are Uppers?”

The blonde seemed to approve Jane's spark of interest. “I have retired from the third tier, and after your examinations, you will soon be taking my position. I'm now on the fifth tier, to learn the Crafters trade.”

She looked excited at the downgrade of station. “I have been selected to be under the tutelage of my muse.” Pointing to a purple vial, the Upper says, “Use this for your hair.”

Jane complies.

The Upper in charge of Jane’s cleaning introduces herself as Kalere and she tried her best to explain the tiers to Jane.

“There are nine levels of the Slave Tier, and yes dear, we are all required to wear the collar. Don't be ashamed of wearing it, no one else is. The collar has become more of a stylized fashion symbol of status and popularity. The higher your position, the more intricate the collar.” She flicks her own and listens to it chime.

Bending down, the Upper tapped at an iridescent pearl on the side of the shell. The murky brown water begins to drain through multiple holes dotting the base of the basin. Kalere tugged the pulley, and new water trickled into the bath as she continued with her explanation.

“The two lowest levels on the tier are the Dregs and Lead Brunts; both are serf classes required to work the land, and their roles varies from harvesting fields of the Nobles to the cutting of wood, their roles are similar to the castle Downers and Leads. Then comes the Uppers, who are now contractually obligated upon retiring from their higher station, to learn under the tutelage of the Crafters. We deal with the management side of celebratory feasts, special events, daily activities, and lastly, the well-being of the Tyros and Courtesans. The Upper position and onward is also where Ice Elves apply for coveted spots in the Slave Tier.”

“What?” Jane was astonished to discover that the race that originated the kingdom willingly subjugated themselves to this class of slavery.

“You didn't know?” Kalere was surprised by Jane's ignorance.

And through further explanation about the duties performed by Tyros, Jane found herself liking the thought of her new position. It was less burdensome than she initially assumed. Actually, it was even more beneficial to her goal. A Tyro was nothing more than the aesthetically pleasing waiters and entertainers in the castle, technically they were a provisional role before becoming a Courtesan.

Some, like Kalere, were not chosen by any of the Nobles to advance to the second highest tier which was ideal for Jane. When she becomes a Tyro, she would be able to gain access to the Snow Queens parties, and perhaps, she might overhear a conversation or two about a polar bear and his brother.

The water in the shell had been drained a second time after Jane rinsed her hair. Kalere gave Jane another lotion that was to be applied liberally on her legs and under her arms.

“Do be careful not to get that in your hair,” the Upper warned. “There's a story floating around that the Snow Prince once tricked a Shield Maiden into thinking the lotion was meant to be used on the head. What a shock she had when her locks dissolved and found herself bald,” Kalere chuckled at the thought.

Jane failed to find the story amusing, especially upon further explanation that the Prince had cast a spell on the lotion preventing hair growth. In the aftermath of that farce, he was cornered by everyone and his mother into finding a counter curse to his nasty trick. The Shield Maiden was fortunate that regrowth was possible, however, her hair was no longer wheat blonde, but black as a moonless night. With a shudder, Jane hoped to never anger the Snow Prince. Messing with someone’s hair the way he did.... that was just plain cruel. She subconsciously touched her own locks of hair in a comforting gesture.

After rinsing herself of the lotion, Kalere refilled the shell once more with a mixture of milk and gardenia scented mineral water. Sniffing at the strong flower scent, Jane decided to just go with the flow and soak this culture in, one thing at a time. Taking the offered sponge from the Upper, Jane dipped it into the water and squeezed out the excess. Impressed by the size of her scrub, rubbing it gently on her cheek, she frowned at the harsh texture. It was too abrasive for her.

A knot formed in her gut as her face flamed bright red.

"Is this a... natural sea sponge?" She squeaked in mortification.

"Yes. They are usually softer than the one you’re holding. You're so filthy, I thought it best to use a sponge more suitable for pots and pans."

_'I thought you'd be softer.'_

_‘Is that all which upsets you?’_

"Oh. My. God!" Jane buried her flushed face against her raised knees.

Kalere raised both her eyebrows at Jane's reaction. "Is there something wrong that I should know of?"

"No!" She cries nervously, twisting the sponge in a death grip; imagining it was an Ice Elf’s neck. "I just remembered something..." It wasn't just something, it was everything.

After her bath in the cleansing room, Kalere took her charge to an ante chamber that lead into the examination quarters. It was an embarrassing walk for Jane, for she had to traverse the hall completely naked, and it didn't help matters when memories of the night she was lost in the snow taunted her every step. Lucky for her, it was a short walk, and no one except Kalere witnessed her shame.

"Your expressive disposition is amorously pleasing," Kalere noted. "Especially when your face flushes so."

Jane could feel her blush worsening, and by the time they reached one of the examination tables, her face was beet red. The Upper instructed her to lay on a white linen sheet while they waited for Kalere's superior. Covering her face in her hands, Jane prayed to an unnamed God to just knock her out for a little while and make her forget everything.

Taking pity of Jane's humiliation, the blonde draped a second linen sheet over her. "Save those looks for the Nobles." She reprimanded.

"Just get this over with…"

Of course nothing she asked for ever came true.

"So my dear Kalere, who did you choose to replace you? Hmm?"

At the sound of the male voice, Jane peeked through her fingers and sighed in defeat. The Crafter who came to examine her was an Ice Elf who looked younger than her, dressed flamboyantly in blues and purples, and one look at him screamed opinionated jerk. That haughty swagger reminded her of the raven haired jackass who tricked her into thinking she was hallucinating and used her like a doll... The urge to hit something was strong in her and she's blushing so hard she thought she'd pass out.

The Crafter set down the wide sketch pad he carried, placed a silver case on top of it, and turned to the Upper to give her a friendly kiss on the cheek.

Kalere smiled brightly at his greeting. "At first, I actually thought she wouldn't fit, but Gurda insisted that she would. Then I thought she was a clever actress during the cleansing. Now, I rather agree with the Lead... She's so innocently expressive!" The blonde deteriorated into a giddy teenager when she said, "Just like the old days! Remember how the slaves used to shy away at everything?"

This was the first time Jane saw this woman act so excited about anything. It was disturbing.

"I remember like it was yesterday!" The Ice Elf sighed dramatically, "It's a shame that the unwilling ones resigned and the new ones know what they're going in for. It ruins half the fun."

Jane wanted to scream in protest, but knowing what she did now, they'd like it too much, so she kept quiet.

"I think we will use the old method on her. It will take a week to get the results, but it will be beneficial in limiting her from.... exposing her charms to the wrong individuals." The Ice Elf wiggled his brows suggestively.

The brunette tried not to make a sound, but a small dastardly whine escaped her lips, causing her examiners to chuckle.

"Lower your hands. Let me see what I have to work with." At her refusal, the elf jerked them away and tugged at her chin to tilt her face this way and that. "Open that mouth wide. If you bite down, I won't hesitate to whip you with the cat o nine," he warned darkly.

Reluctantly, Jane opens her mouth. And this was exactly what the other man did to her when he... and his hands were... and she...oh boy…

"Wider, that's a good one," the Crafter said as he runs his fingers along her teeth. "Now that's a pretty little mouth," he crooned, "Goes well with the symmetry of that lickable face. Whoopsie. Shouldn't be too forward with the merchandise." He smiles sweetly.

"Don't tease her so..." Kalere said, "Look how she reddens."

"Please, just stop," Jane begged.

"How delightful," the elf sighed.

And the verbal assault continued.

They were considerate enough not to probe anywhere else on or in her body. When asked to step off the table to remove the linen covering her nakedness, she grudgingly did as they requested, then abruptly threatened to be whipped if she didn’t lower her hands from breasts and crotch. Jane took a deep breath, closed her eyes and set her arms down.

"She's terribly stunted," the elf mocked as he circles around the Tyro. Measuring her height with a long bit of twine. He reaches for a pad in his pocket and a bit of chalk to jot down the distance of waist to hip, shoulder to elbow, and everywhere in between.

"She's considered average for a human."

The Crafter paused in his work and eyed the Tyro, "...Hnnn...well... I know a few nobles with a notable size kink...." He mumbles thoughtfully.

"One of the many advantages of one so small." The Upper rebuffs.

"Oh look, at her face!" he says excitedly, scribbling with new purpose. "Such inspiration she stirs in the loins!"

This has topped the most embarrassing moment of Jane's life.

The Upper pricked Jane's pointer finger with a sharp needle and squeezed a few drops of blood into a thin vial while the elf squats somewhere Jane couldn't bear to acknowledge.

"To test for any venereal diseases," Kalere explained, capping the vial.

Apparently Ice Elves also had transmittable diseases that were incurable. A wasteful bit of information, but a fact worth knowing all the same.

When her physical examination was over, Jane was escorted to the entrance into the Tyros’ living quarters to be properly attired and allowed rest. After her departure, the examiners discussed about her potential in private.

"Why would the distributor put a pretty thing in that station?" The Crafter asked thoughtfully, flicking his golden bell.

"Gurda claims the Downer was sickly." The Upper replied, not caring about the topic.

"Why wasn't she placed in the medical wards?"

"Greedy old thing only kept her for the reward." Shrugging her shoulders, Kalere tucked the vial of blood in her pocket. "The chef did admit to me that if Jane's complexion failed to flower by the time of my avocation, she was considering transferring her to the maids’ quarters."

"Which she should have been sent to in the first place... Oh, why bother thinking such things. We must focus on the task at hand. Where's my sketch book? I'm thinking simplicity to showcase the rawness of her features." The Crafter gathered his things and flipped the pad to a clean page, "Light on the cosmetics..."

"Perhaps a hint of frost along her cheekbones." Kalere suggests.

The Crafter agreed, delighted at the thought. "It must be gold frost. To emphasize the warmth of sweet shame. Nothing else will do."

* * *

 

There is a reason why the fifth rank is called Upper; everyone in that tier and above were on a different plane of existence than all other in the kingdom. Palace life was filled with decadence of the highest order that Jane had never experienced in all twenty eight years of living. From the fifth tier onward, every servants objective was spent on entertainment and crafting living beauty for the sole benefit of amusing the court.

It was shocking for her to discover that humans were a minority in this selected class and most of the Tyros and Courtesans were Ice Elves.

The beginning of each day started with a mineral bath. It was fortunate that Tyros were allowed to bathe themselves without the constant supervision of the Uppers. Some of the Courtesans were not so fortunate. If ordered by their contractual Master, they would not be allowed this simple dignity, were constantly supervised throughout the process, and sometimes, they would be washed by the Uppers themselves.

Jane blushed furiously whenever a male Tyro bathed in shells directly next to hers where she could clearly see them, or worse, when they actually struck up conversation with her about the latest gossip going around the palace. Though, truth be told, she’d rather have conversations with Tyros than to see the Courtesans herded around on hands and knees to be groomed at different stations.

Halfway through her daily cleansing, a loud yawn caught her attention and she glances to the left at a male Tyro latching a tray of cleaning products to the purple shell beside her pink one. His physique was just as gorgeous as the Statue of David and his short ash blond hair was bedraggled from sleep. His skin was pale blue, and his morning wood was a deep shade of red that caused Jane to blush and drop her soap bar.

Trying to distract herself from the sight of a naked Ice Elf, Jane fished the bar of soap out of her milky bath and hurriedly scrubbed her feet. She knew it was a natural process for a man to wake up with an erection, that she shouldn't feel so embarrassed every time she saw it, but these people were absolutely shameless. What the man did next made Jane want to crawl into a hole and never come out again.

“Good morrow sweet maiden, might I ask a favor of you?” He requested in a dreamy voice that made Jane tingle in all the wrong places.

“No,” Jane replied, not at all comfortable with the way the man leaned back against the rim of the shell and held himself.

He grins and shrugs his shoulders, “I suppose it's more fun this way.” Scanning the room for any signs of Uppers, he spots one fully distracted with her duties of bathing a female Courtesan. Picking up a bottle of bathing cream, he dabbed the contents into his free hand, closed his eyes, shifts his hips, spreads his legs, and begins to rub the cream along his penis to ease himself of his morning affliction. Sighing in content, he plops the bottle in the water and reaches down between his shaven thighs to play with his scrotum with his other hand.

It was like a train wreck to her that she could not stop watching, and she felt herself heating up at the sight of it. And as his breath turned ragged, his face began to flush when he pinched the tip of his crown - only then did she whip her head around to stare up at the chiseled decorations of anemones along the walls.

Someone whispered from the other side of her shell, “Now that is a brilliant idea.”

Sitting in the shell to the right of her was a blue skinned Ice Elf tending to his own arousal.

In a panic, Jane bolted out of her shell, and scampered over to a rack of towels to dry herself off. Pulling a towel securely around her body, she heard a cry of outrage from where she had just left.

“WHAT ARE THE BOTH OF YOU DOING?”

“He started it!”

“I _had_ a need.”

Taking a peek at the noise, Jane noticed the two male Tyros masturbating in their shells were getting reprimanded for their misdeeds. None of the males showed any sign of guilt for what they've done. They were both forced into a kneeling position with their hands tucked behind their necks as two Uppers and a furious Crafter, holding a riding crop, came through the entryway into the bathing chamber. Too horrified to witness their punishment, Jane quickly opened a door disguised as an ornate carving of a mound of undersea coral, and slipped out of the room just as the first harsh crack of leather hitting tender flesh began repeating itself.

The hidden door led to an open space with flat cushioned tables that were all occupied by Tyros and Courtesans. Within this chamber, the servants were all pampered with perfumes and lotions for their daily activities. Finding a vacant table, she discarded her wet towel into a small basket, laid naked on her stomach, and covered her rear with a small folded towel that was supposed to be wrapped around her neck.

“Just the beginning of the morning and we already have two in for the Task of Punishments...” A female Upper grumbled out in greeting as she began to collect the strands of Jane's wet hair and clip it high on her head.

Closing her eyes, Jane tried to tune out the feel of the Upper massaging soothing oils onto her back and shoulders. As the Upper went lower to Jane's legs, the mortal thought about the man she swore not to think of until she found him. Wanting to whisper his name out loud, yet too afraid of being overheard by her female attendant, she thought of his name within her mind. The guilt she feels worsened, but righteousness reared its head to do away with the guilt, and she reminds herself daily that the ignoble degradation was a self-inflicting punishment for not taking the easy route of falling in love with a – supposedly - handsome blond stranger.

When the grooming was finished, Jane unwrapped the folded towel and carefully covered herself with it before scampering off to be outfitted for the day. She made sure to always keep her head down and eyes averted so she wouldn't have to see anymore naked bodies. The Crafters in charge of wardrobes always dressed Jane in simple drapey outfits reminiscent to those prostitutes in that medieval fantasy show that Darcy started watching before the shit hit the fan. They also braided her hair in elaborate twists entwined with beads of pearls, and when occasion called for it, with handpicked flowers of her choosing that she collected near the Flower Pavilion.

The only makeup they applied on her was a bit of gloss on her lips, a hint of eye shadow and what they called frost shimmer along her cheekbones. She never had the opportunity to look at herself after they finished with her. Too overexcited and anxious about everything, simple as they may be, or overcome with worry that she might do something wrong and be whipped for her transgressions. Her fear of punishment was one of the biggest problems she faced that prevented her from slipping away in search of her backpack.

Six days had passed since becoming a Tyro, and by tomorrow her test result would come back to allow her admittance into the royal functions. She spent most her days training with the other fledgling Tyros about proper protocols when dealing with Nobles; always call them Lord or Lady, never speak unless spoken to, how to hold oneself, serve, and other inconsequential mannerisms that must be performed while attending their clients.

So far, she had seen a handful of Nobles strolling through the hallways of the palace, some walked their Courtesans as they discussed the over population of the frost trolls and problems of random attacks from wolves, while others played their pleasure games where everyone could see them. Whenever a game had commenced, Jane would bow her head, press her lips together and walk all the faster. None of the Nobles ever looked at her, and she prayed no one ever did.

Today she was scheduled to pick flowers, but was held up by a Crafter hair dresser who decided Jane would be the perfect subject for an Upper to practice his skills. Taking his time, the Upper braided small strands of her hair, and curled the rest. Splitting her bangs, he clips them in two half ponytails, and spreads the ringlets over her shoulders and fanned her hair behind her back. He chose not to use the quartz and pearl beads traditionally made for Tyros; instead, he favored the individual pins infused at the ends with circular quartz crystal, and dangling drop-pearl clamps.

"It looks random, like bejeweled raindrops or even scattered snow," the Crafter complimented.

Twisting the small pins securely into the Tyros long brown hair, the Upper turned to the Crafter, "I would like to add flowers. Small ones, if that's acceptable?" He asked nervously.

The Crafter studied Jane's hair, nodded in agreement, "We might have some that have yet to wilt." He left his student and quickly returned with two small bowls, "All we have left are these. Now, a little test, can you tell me each type of flora?"

A look of doubt entered the student’s eyes as he peered into the first bowl. Sighing in relief, he picked up the small magenta blossom and twirled it between his fingers. "This is ixoria," he said with confidence.

" _Ixora,_ " the Crafter corrected. "And the other?"

The Upper looked crestfallen while examining the blue flower in the second bowl, noticing the yellow rim in the middle of it, he guessed, "Myosotis....Forget-me-nots?"

"Correct. Now, proceed. Remember, keep the stem of the ixora straight as they are and only clamp them lightly, it's easier for Nobles to get to the nectar."

The entire process lasted over half an hour and Jane was running late. Picking up a handleless pearl basket, she was instructed by the Crafter to gather flowers matching those used for her hair. Mumbling under her breath, she stacked a second basket over the original and quickly departed.

The chime of her new copper bell signaled her every step. The new collar they supplied was velvety smooth against her skin, rose pink in color, and was an improvement from the scratchy leather collar she wore as a Downer.

Jane staunchly ignored the desire to study the luminous glow emitting from the quartz floor, nor did she admire the carvings of multiple flowers in bloom along the upper and lower walls. She didn't particularly enjoy much about the palace, especially when the brightness of the hallways made her white dress translucent enough to reveal the shadow shape of her body. Taking a risk, Jane took a shortcut through the Nobles walking ground - knowing it would take half the time to reach the exit.

The sound of something tinging caught her attention. A golden coin imprinted with blue enameling the size of a half-dollar bounced against the corner wall, rolled quickly along the hallway, hit the side of her sandaled foot, and wobbled to a stop in front of her. This is precisely the situation that she hoped to avoid getting into. Dreading the thought of what could happen next, Jane's eyes were transfixed upon the glimmering coin so close to her slipper.

"Do refrain from the attempt of flipping coins while negotiating."

At the sound of that criticizing voice, Jane froze like a dear in headlights, too overcome by the irony of coincidence to ever believe she'd ever get any slack.

"It was an accident; honestly, I've never dropped it before... Let me find it, that trinket is not cheap."

Hurried footsteps came around the corner, and Jane came face to face with an older Noble with grey hair, skin tone a deep shade of blue, and just as tall as the raven haired man. He wore an auburn surcoat sewn with glittering blue thread with an asymmetrical design of falling snowflakes that accentuated the rich fabric of his coat and complimented his lean build. His pants were tight, made of dark tan leather that matched the color of his boots. The way his worried expression morphs into a leer at the sight of her was disheartening to behold.

Casting her head down, Jane refused to look at the Noble, more specifically, the companion he was with who just walked around the bend of the hallway. Pressing the pearl baskets with the bronze bottom flat against her upper torso, subconsciously covering her breasts, she wished desperately to be somewhere else. None of her wishes ever came true.

"Well now," the blue skin noble murmured, "A pleasure slave...all alone." He circled her once. Stopping in front and to the side of her; examining her profile, enjoying the view.

Jane cowered as her hair tumbled around her like blinders.

"Wash your eyes," his companion mocked. "Tis an un-indoctrinated Tyro, merely a bud soon to bloom, one must tread carefully amongst them, least they pluck your heart with their delicate thorns."

Glancing left, Jane watches through a segment of braided hair as amethyst eyes trailed down her body, taking in her modestly long, yet revealing style of dress. The warning of his companion does not faze him in the slightest.

The Noble smiled, "Well then, I ought to teach her something useful."

"You wish to waste my time?" The other elf asked pleasantly - Jane could distinctly hear the undertone of a thinly veiled threat.

"We Ice Elves consider this not to be of waste. You are the queer exception... though we all forgive you for your ignorance, what with your....inexperience...." The grey haired elf sneered disapprovingly at his companion.

Jane feared she had indirectly become involved with a topic of discourse that had nothing to do with her, save for being the poor soul caught unawares in the cross fires of long brewing animosity.

A hand jerked her head sideways. "Look at me slave!" The blue elf demanded.

Glaring hatefully, Jane flattened her lips, turned away from the black haired man, and gave her captor her undivided attention.

"Pick it up," he says, releasing his bruising grip.

Taking a few steps backward to maintain distance between the men, she spots the coin and gracefully bends down with her knees, keeping her spine straight while she placed the baskets beside her, and tucked the back of her dress underneath her rear. Her hair unintentionally fell forward across her shoulders, exposing her back to the other. As she lowered herself into the traditional kneeling position -exactly as she was taught- Jane snatches up the coin and quickly stands.

Hand outstretched, a look of impatience on her face, Jane waits for the Noble to take back the trinket.

A bark of laughter escapes the blue skinned elf. "You did it all wrong!" He claims in disgust. "Put the coin back on the floor exactly where you found it, get on your hands and knees. Use your mouth like the proper slave you are, "He says cruelly.

Defiance fades away as Jane pales, stutters, using her voice for the first time, "But I'm-"

"But nothing! You do as the Nobles command!" He orders belligerently, "Or else I will punish you for disobedience." He says, winking over her shoulder at his companion.

What the Ice Elf demands from her is unbearable. Feeling alone and insecure, Jane glances over her shoulder, searching for signs of an Upper or Crafter to help absolve this peacefully. There was no one around besides the three of them. Brown eyes meet frost green, and she feels lightheaded as the memories of the night he found her in the snow bombards her senses.

Panic takes root when recognition flashes briefly in his calculating eyes, yet he does nothing; his hands rest behind his back, a posture showcasing power and control, appearing stoic and uncaring of her plight. Today, he wears a black leather outfit with hints of green that looks similar to the attire that was worn the first time they met out in the storm - and she knew exactly what he looked like underneath it. Jane feels her entire body heating up in embarrassment. She swears if she looks at him long enough, she'd turn into a tomato and grow little curly vines of leaves.

Feeling sick, she slowly kneels and listens to the way her copper bell tings as she sets down the coin. Shamefully, Jane places her hands upon the floor - she couldn't bring herself to lean forward – her breath hitched from fright, face on fire, ears burning, she dreads the punishment of failure.

' _I can't do this. Oh Thor, I can't._ '

**Author's Note:**

> This story was made for a good friend of mine. Review if you have constructive criticism, or if you want more of this story.
> 
> Things that will be explained:(In the late future)
> 
> What Thor-bear did during his wanderings
> 
> Political aspect of the curse
> 
> Who Jane is searching for
> 
> The items in Jane's bag
> 
> Mama-Bear-Frigga just about had enough of everyone's shit.


End file.
